


Glossophobia

by brobat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, a non-canon theory with some canon evidence, angst ahoy, mild spyderbyte
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 22:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14458881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brobat/pseuds/brobat
Summary: All you have to do is take a few deep breaths before going on stage.





	Glossophobia

 

_ It begins slowly, one thing at a time. _

 

The first time she heard his name, Sombra was blathering about something or another. Calling Reaper ‘Gabe.’ She wasn’t aware he had a real name, or a background beyond revenge. 

So many fuzzy memories.

“So, you knocked down one of Overwatch’s big dudes, Widowmaker? Or is it Amélie?”

“I don’t know that name,” she responded, pursing her lips together in irritation. It was the early days of Talon, before everyone had become formally acquainted. Before all the realities of their missions were made clear.

“Anyways,  _ Amélie. _ You assassinated Gérard LaCroix. That’s pretty brutal, y’know, murdering your husband.”

“My...what?”

“Husband? Like, a dude you married. Don’t tell me the crazy science crap fried your brain that hard.” Sombra laughed, obviously not realizing what activated in her brain.

 

_ Husband? _

 

Thanks to Sombra’s nosy gossiping, Widowmaker (or rather, Amélie) was now aware her first kill, the one that made her feel something other than nothingness, was her husband. And the memories came back.

Infrequently, though, quietly sneaking into her mind as she traced the skyline for targets. Gérard showing her a sunset. Hiding amongst the trees. Gérard surprising her with flowers after a nerve-wracking performance.

 

_ Performance? _

 

She used to be a dancer, pushing all her emotions deep down within her, just to dance. For all intents and purposes, when she danced she felt nothing. She had to.

The show was more important.

 

_ So slowly. _

 

Gérard’s name was mentioned again, although a month later. She still didn’t feel anything, not emotions or sensations.

Reaper (or rather, Gabriel) was complaining, as he was prone to do. 

“The last effective thing we did was off that son of a bitch LaCroix.”

“What?” She seethed. Her fists clenched, not of her own doing.

“You heard me, Widowmaker.” His low voice grumbled more.

Her teeth grinded.

That day, she missed.

 

_ I don’t want to. _

 

She remembered her words. Most of her memories before the science experiment that became her were fuzzy. Not that she cared enough to try and remember. But she remembered her words.

She remembered her rage. Suddenly, every single memory flooded back to her, in that moment standing above him. Sniper rifle pointed at his temple.

All the fights, every word uttered that made her feel small. 

She didn’t understand Overwatch, and he wasn’t privy to letting Amélie know the finer details of his job. To protect him. To protect her.

Too bad it did neither.

Even after the conditioning, it took her a week to kill him.

One painful week.

 

_ Anger. Fiery Anger. _

 

They were bringing up documents in the command room. Files of Overwatch Agents, former and deceased.

Ana Amari’s file slid across the sleek steel table.

“We have reason to believe she survived her injuries,” Maximilien said, steepling his Omnic fingers together.

Reaper grunted at her.

“I thought you finished the job, Widowmaker?”

“What can she possibly do now? She’s nothing. Just a broken shell of a women,” she bitterly replied.

That wasn’t the response they wanted. 

She wasn’t talking about Ana.

 

_ Hollow. _

 

The Talon airship dropped her off at a nondescript island. According to Sombra (despite her nosyness, she was useful for giving Amélie information), this was the mansion Amélie was entitled to. Through some meddling, they gained the ownership of the home back.

“You gonna invite me over?” Sombra asked, whistling at the vastness of the house.

“ _ Non _ . Not until I clean it up.” Amélie walked around the front of it, kicking over debris with her heel.

“Come on, we can party hard here. I can even bring the booze.”

“What’s the point of drinking if I can’t even feel it?” She glared at the smaller woman, not realizing her mask of apathy peeled. 

“Okay, okay. Don’t have to be so uppity about it. Have fun in your mansion built for one.”

 

The mansion was where they were supposed to move to, after Gérard’s retirement. One more month of service, and then freedom. The house had quite a few of their old things strewn about, like photographs and furniture. 

Bitterness creeped in again, making her hollow body feel something again.

Just anger. 

That’s the only feeling left.

The basement was dusty, and had plenty of spiders. Cobwebs guarded the wine cellar, already filled with antique vintages.

She couldn’t drink, though. Alcohol was by and large pointless for someone who had no emotions.

Right?

 

_ I’m a fool. _

 

She hiccuped, two bottles in and mad. She had collected every single picture frame in the house, and had her sniper rifle dangling in her arms. Outside, she could see the ocean, and the waves crashed against the cliffs.

With a flick, a picture frame flew in the open air, and just as quickly shot down.

Skeet shooting, but more therapeutic.

“Ohh,  _ merci boucoup _ Sombrero, you really helped me out here. Now I can drink and suffer more in the comfort of m-my own home.  _ Mer _ -ank you, you annoying girl,” she slurred loudly.

She swayed from the alcohol, tossing another picture frame up.

“I wish I could feel  _ le vin,  _ but  _ noooooooon  _ Widowmaker cannot feel anything!” she yelled, shooting the frame into pieces.

“That’s not my name! That was never my name!”

She chugged the remaining wine.

“ _ Je...Je m’appelle Amélie _ !” she screamed.

Her hands dug around in the box for another memory. As she lifted it up, the image caught her eye.

It was her wedding picture.

“Pathetic.” She didn’t know if she was saying it to the Gérard in the photo or herself.

Teardrops fell on the glass.

She suddenly realized why people enjoyed drinking.

 

_ It begins quickly, all at once. _

 

She slammed 3 bottles of wine on the table in Sombra’s quarters.

“You said you wanted to ‘party hard.’”

Sombra spun around in her computer chair, cackling. 

“So the spider wants out of her web.”

“Sombra,” she chided, giving her a face. “It was your idea.”

“You’re the one who brought the booze,” Sombra laughed, grabbing a bottle of tequila out from under her desk. “I mean, I’m not complaining.”

“If anyone asks, it was your idea.” She narrowed her eyes, trying to look menacing. For the most part, Sombra had stopped annoying her. However, keeping up the facade was also important. Keeping possible allies at arms reach.

The cork popped off as Amélie drank straight from the bottle.

“Holy shit, you want a glass for that or nah? Jesus, Amélie, you are hardcore. Remind me to bring you down to Calaveras with me.”

 

She didn’t remember how many drinks in she was. Vastly more drunk than she had felt back in her mansion. Somehow, she had ended up on the floor, beside Sombra.

“Sombra?”

“Yeah, homie?”

“Why did you tell me my name?”

Sombra became quiet, her near constant giggling ceasing.

“It’s like...information. Why do you think I go after all those shitty corporations? Because they have all this information, and the little people, like… the poor people get fucked over.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Amélie furrowed her brow. The girl beside her sat up, wobbly, and leaned over her.

“Because it’s bullshit that Talon hid that from you. If they wanted you to be an elite assassin that bad, they would let you own it. Let you own what you did. It was a shitty thing to do.”

Sombra’s hair brushed up against her cheek, and suddenly she felt warmth rising in her cold body.

Their eyes searched each other’s, and without warning Amélie reached her hand up to Sombra.

“Why are you trying to protect me?” She reminded her of Gérard.

Sombra’s eyes widened.

“Sorry.” Her hand retracted. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Do you, uh, want more shots?”

“ _ Oui _ .”

“ _ Si _ ,” Sombra said back, sticking her tongue out. “Hey, Amélie…”

“Hmm?”

“Olivia. Mine’s Olivia. But I swear on my life, if you tell anyone that, I will put memes in your visor permanently. Got that?”

“ _ Si _ .”

 

_ It begins like a gun, like a bullet leaving the chamber. _

 

The team was in Oasis, for some sort of meeting. Dr. Moira O’Deorain stepped out to greet them.

Reaper grunted.

“Moira,” he mumbled curtly.

“Reyes,” she replied, an air of sophistication and sarcasm apparent. “Sombra.” Her eyes glanced over at Amélie.

“How are you feeling, LaCroix?” she asked, looking her up and down.

Her mouth moved on its own.

“I don’t feel anything. That’s the point,  _ isn’t it _ ?”

 

_ Push them all down, Amélie. The show must go on. _


End file.
